like a whisper upon the cold, harsh air
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Fen'Harel arrives in Haven to repair the damage his mistakes have caused. What he finds is not what he expected.


**like a whisper upon the cold, harsh air**

Nothing had gone as planned.

During the millennia he had slumbered, the world had changed far beyond what he had imagined. The plans he and Mythal had crafted together were all but useless now—ancient ideas for an unrecognizable world which had all but descended into madness.

His awakening had, also, not gone as planned. He had been weak—oh so weak—conscious but unable to move, to act, to _be._ His mind had to do what his body could not—search the darkest corners of the known world for another means to continue on his path. And so he found Corypheus, another ancient being, eager and self-destructive in his greed—easy prey. He manipulated the darkspawn magister into finding and unlocking the orb.

An act which also did not go as planned.

The explosion at the Divine Conclave resounded in all corners of the world and the Fade. The Veil was sundered—by mistake, in error. It was too early. It had not been done correctly. The world would burn for his mistake, Corypheus would see to that. How easily control slipped from his grasp. The magister was running amok, the world and the Fade both suffered, and the fabric of space and time were slowly disintegrating.

Chaos.

Madness.

It was not meant to be this way. One mistake leading to another and to another and to another in an unbroken chain of faults leading back to him and his actions at Tarasy'lan Te'las. Mythal would be disappointed, if she lived still. She had taught him better than this.

The anchor was misplaced. He knew he must search for the one to whom it was now gifted—only then would he be able to utilize its power. That fool Corypheus did not have it, that he was certain. He would have known immediately had that been true. No. The anchor had gone elsewhere, gifted to some bumbling mortal who had accidentally fallen into machinations far, far beyond their understanding.

He needed to find them. Remove the mark—by force, if necessary. It could not go to waste. The People— _his People_ —depended on it.

It was all falling apart.

He thought it would have been simple. He arrived at Haven, that human blight upon the mountains, a monument to a woman whose fate they could never understand, the prophetess of a God who both could and could not be. Once there, he assumed his preferred guise, easily slipping in amongst the hordes of pilgrims coming to offer aid or—as some claimed—to see the world's end. He offered help. The humans accepted, even though he was an elf and a mage, the two things they were suspicious of most. They were raw and wounded, shaken by the events of the past days and the tear in the sky.

If only they knew.

They had no inkling.

That – again – was his fault. If not for his actions, humans would never have entered this part of the world.

He was taken to the Right Hand of the Divine, Cassandra Pentaghast, a woman who bore her lineage in her face and eyes, stretching back thousands of years. _There is ferocious power in this one,_ he thought. It was she who decided how his talents might best be used.

It was she who led him towards the cell where they kept the prisoner.

"Prisoner?" he asked.

"She is the one who needs your help now," Cassandra said as she led him inside Haven's Chantry. "Our wounded can be tended to by our own healers. _She_ is afflicted by something else entirely."

"Yes," he said, "but if she is gravely injured, why is she a prisoner? What has she done that demands chains and cells in a time of crisis?"

Cassandra stopped. She looked at him, dark eyes gleaming, her pale face illuminated by the harsh red light of the glowing Chantry lamps. Her facial scar was turned into an angry red gash. "There is one thing I must make abundantly clear, mage," she said. "You are an apostate—an apostate who appeared out of nowhere and offered his help. We are in the middle of a war. Templars and mages across Thedas are committing horrific crimes against the innocent, driven by their need to destroy each other."

"As difficult as that is, it pales in comparison to what is happening now, when the sky is torn and spirits walk the earth."

Her eyes narrowed. "We will deal with the demons," she said. "I would be a fool to trust you, but you claim to have knowledge of this tear in the sky. You are perhaps the only one who can help us now, and for that I will offer you whatever protection my position can give." Her nostrils flared. "That being said, it would be wise not to cross me. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Good. Then follow me."

Cassandra opened a heavy oak door and led him down a steep flight of stairs. "The woman you are to see is a prisoner because she is suspected of causing the explosion at the Conclave."

"Why?"

"Must you ask so many questions?" Cassandra snapped.

"Only when there are still answers to be found."

Cassandra let out an exasperated sigh. "She is a mage. So perhaps it was out of anger at the treatment of mages by the Circles. But she is also Dalish, so perhaps it was out of anger at the treatment of her kind. No one has been able to identify her—it's likely she was at the Conclave as a spy."

As they descended the stairs, he was hit by a flash of recent memory reflected in the magic of this place. _Corypheus' magic lifting the Divine aloft…fear striking in her panicked eyes…the magister raising the orb, a flash of light_ —and then nothing. An interruption.

"No," he said, rubbing his forehead and dismissing the unwelcomed for memory. "That is not what I asked. Why is she the one you suspect?"

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and were now walking along a long, cold corridor. Their breath rose as mist and what little light there was came from torches that hung at irregular intervals along the walls.

"She is the sole survivor," Cassandra said. There was great pain in her voice—she bore deep guilt about the death of the Divine and so many others. "There _is_ no one else."

"You can't know that for certain."

"That's why you must save her life."

He stopped short. "She's dying?"

"It is… unclear." They stopped at a barred door. "You will see in a moment. Be careful—she could still be dangerous."

Cassandra pushed the door open.

The cell was cramped. No windows, only a single torch to illuminate and warm the cold stone. In the centre lay a straw pallet, and upon the pallet lay—

He stopped moving.

The woman lay on her back, eyes closed, her chest almost imperceptibly rising up and down. She was short and slender, dressed in clothes of brown and green cut in a style he had learned to associate with the Dalish, the roving clans of elvhen who attempted to recollect their shattered history (he tried not to think of how it was _he_ who had done the shattering). Her complexion was brown, weathered by years lived outside. Her hair was abundant, falling long and loose in dark brown curls about her shoulders. Above her left eye was a scar that looked like it had been inflicted by a knife wound.

His breath caught.

 _No._

Her face bore the brands of Dirthamen. They were difficult to see in this light, but they were there—tattooed in gold across her forehead, cheeks and chin.

So this was the legacy of the vallaslin. The very _thing_ he had tried to eradicate forever. The mark of ancient blood slavery to tyrannical masters.

He pushed down his fury. Now was not the time.

"She appears uninjured to me," he said.

"Wait," Cassandra said.

With a sudden cracking sound, the woman was encased in a glowing green light that emanated from her hand. It twisted around her body, pulsing, before retreating back.

He froze.

 _It cannot be._

The anchor.

What he had come for had branded itself upon this elven woman, a victim of fate and circumstance. Yet another life whose course he had irrevocably altered.

The anchor pulsed again, lighting up the cell. He rushed to the woman's side and seized her hand by the wrist. "The mark," he said. _His_ mark. "It's spreading. It will kill her if I don't contain it."

"We can't let that happen," Cassandra said. "She may have valuable information about what caused this disaster."

With a thunderous sound, the mark lit up, spirals of green light soaring towards the ceiling. He needed to get Cassandra out of here. There was too much at stake. "At a guess," he said, "this mark—whatever it may be—is connected to the breach in the sky."

"Its source?"

"No. A side effect."

Cassandra folded her arms and scowled. "And you know this _how?"_

"Seeker Pentaghast," he said pointedly, "you brought me here because I am a scholar of the Fade. You already have your answer. Now let me work."

He turned the woman's hand over. Yes—she must have touched the orb after Corypheus had activated it, it was the only way it would connect itself to her. But how? Why? What had she done?

"Can you save her?"

He looked up at Cassandra. "I don't know."

More thunder, this time from outside. The very foundation of the Chantry was shaking.

"I must go," Cassandra said, "and help the defense of Haven. We must not be overrun by the demon horde falling from the sky." She drew her sword and ran for the door. At the entrance, she stopped and looked back. "Thank you."

Then she was gone.

They would be lucky if they survived until morning.

He returned to the woman on the pallet. She had not moved, her body completely still in its slumber. He grasped her hand. Green light spilled out from between their joined fingers.

She was doomed. He had doomed her. He alone could bear the anchor and not die. Corypheus should have destroyed himself, but he did not. This woman had stopped him somehow—either by accident or on purpose.

He could take it now, while it was new and untamed. He _should_ take it. All his work, millennia of toil, would be for naught if he did not take it now. The world would burn and die, all life extinguished, if he _did not take it now._

But she would die for certain. There was no way to remove the anchor without killing her.

Torn with indecision, he cast a spell of stasis around her hand, momentarily containing the wild, out-of-control magic. He knelt beside her, as if meditating, as he tried to make a decision.

She was a single life. One life for millions. It was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.

 _She never asked for this…_

But she was also one of the People. And he had sworn he would not let anymore of the People die as long as he drew breath. He had condemned them to a world of slavery and suffering by his actions.

Could he, in good conscience, strike her down?

The anchor glowed, calling to him.

It would be what the Evanuris would do. But he was no Evanuris. He had destroyed them.

And he had made a promise. He had sworn to the greatest person he knew, the only one who truly mattered, that he would do whatever it took to save the People.

The elves needed him.

And to save them, he needed command of the power that was his.

A faint stirring. The woman was waking.

He looked down at her in surprise. Her eyes slowly opened—they were surprisingly green and vibrant. Her brows furrowed as she stared up at him, confusion in her face.

"Where—where am I?" she said, her voice small and hoarse.

"You're safe," he said softly.

"Who—who are you?" She was disoriented, desperately clutching his hand as the one thing she could hold on to. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she didn't blink them away. She looked like she was about to fall unconscious again—she would probably never remember this.

And in that moment, Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, made a choice.

No power in this world could force him to kill one of the People—not even his own. The plan was not yet in shambles; he would find another way to achieve his ends. This was merely another twist in the path, an unexpected turn in the journey. He was the source of the mark on this woman's hand and he could not, in good will, kill her for it. Nor would he let it kill her. He would find a way to save her. He swore it.

"Why are you here?" The woman's voice was wracked with pain as the mark flared again. She was trying to sit up, but she lacked strength. "Who _are_ you?"

He let her grab hold of him for support as she looked around wildly, trying to make sense of her surroundings. He held her gently as she cried in pain from the pulsing anchor.

"I am here to help," he said.

She nodded, teeth gritted against the pain. She was putting in a formidable effort, but she would soon pass out.

"And," he said, "my name is Solas."

 _end_


End file.
